“Car,” she says, marbled in her yawn.
I give her a wink as I swipe the car keys off the nightstand, shoving my feet into my slides before I head to the door.
“Are you going to put pants on?” She laughs while saying it.
I shake my head, looking down at the long T-shirt that says I’d hit that. There was no way I was leaving it behind. It’s the perfect memento from my night of debauchery.
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll be right back.”
The heat hits hard the moment I step outside, making goose bumps bloom over my arms. I’m already fanning myself as I walk over the loose gravel toward the shit brown Toyota Camry we rented. But you can’t beat nineteen dollars a day.
My only current regret is that we parked in the far corner of the lot, almost hidden by the dumpsters. Because this place really should be a filming location for Unsolved Mysteries.
“Hey, girl.”
My Nike slides crunch on the ground as my breath catches, and I look over my shoulder.
Some dude that looks like a Vanilla Ice dupe smiles from where he’s leaning against the wall.
“Oh, hell no,” I whisper, turning back and picking up my pace, trying not to sway my ass.
I start walking like I’ve shit my pants, kind of wide-legged and stiff.
Why did I think wearing a fucking nightgown shirt was a good idea? Fuck. What if this is like that documentary I saw once. What did they say again? Oh yeah—if you look a pimp in the eye, you become his girl.
Do not look over your shoulder. Do not look over your shoulder.
I’ll kill Millie if I get fucking trafficked in Vegas by Ice Ice Baby.
My breath finally leaves my body as I reach for my car door, clicking it unlocked. Oo shit, it’s hot. But I tug it open anyway.
I’d rather have third-degree burns than that dirty dick in my mouth.
God. Damn.
The amount of hot air that just bursts from inside my car feels like I’m being hotboxed by nature. What the fuck.
I can’t even fucking swallow as I slide inside, closing the door. Jesus Christ. I read once that the murder rate increases when the temperature hits above ninety-eight degrees. I believe that because I want to shank someone right now.
How do people who live here survive? This weather is like a live reenactment of The Purge.
I pull the visor down to look behind me to see if Pimp Daddy Lame is still there. But I don’t see him anymore. Thank god.
So, I shove the keys into the car to start it so I can turn on the air-conditioning because I feel like I’m being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. My head falls back as I groan because more hot air bursts from the vents before turning cold.
I’m too delicate for this. I live in California. Anything above seventy-five degrees is torture.
Las Vegas is basically waterboarding me. Jail for you, Sin City.
My eyes drop to the console as I rummage around for the charger, but I don’t see it, so I look in the back seat, twisting my body to try to look at the floorboard. The tip of the cord is peeking out from under the passenger seat, so I lean over awkwardly, trying to reach it.
As I do, tires ripping over gravel fills my ears, but I don’t look up, still struggling, scooting myself a little further over to try to get my fingers on the cord.
Did that car peel in?
My gut starts to turn over as the thought lingers.
Oh my god. What if that sketchy dude left and came back with more dudes? No. Maybe…
It’s one of those thoughts that make you ask yourself, Am I crazy, or is this intuition?
I’m either about to save my own life or humiliate myself, like when I was sixteen and I called the cops on our neighbor because I thought he was part of a satanic cult killing people in his basement. Turns out he and his friends were just playing D&D and liked to dress up.
Regardless, I swallow hard and start walking my hands back to sit right in the seat. But as I sit up, my hair still in my face, the passenger-side door opens.
I scream. Close my eyes. And fucking swing.
I’m not even sure I connect with anything, but I keep doing it. And for whatever reason, like a lunatic, I start reciting all the information from the self-defense class my whole sixth-grade class was forced to take.
“Feet first. Feet first,” I bellow.
I try to spin myself around to kick whoever’s in my passenger seat, still yelling my thoughts.
“I won’t go quietly. But I haven’t seen you. I can’t be a witness.”
My fist connects with something hard, as I hear a deep voice say, “Ow. Fuck.”
That’s right, bitch. Catch these hands.
I’m wild, feral, throwing all manner of my one hand. Because I’m so deep in panic, it hasn’t occurred to me that I could let go of the steering wheel and use my other one too.
“Stop hitting me,” my attacker growls, swatting me away.
But I yell back, still trying to lift my leg to get into a position like I’m in the UFC as I yell back.
“I’m not even in the age demographic to be trafficked. Google it. Fuck you.”
A very strong hand grips my thigh, holding it in place as he yells back, “Would you quit fucking hitting me? Eleanor. Open your goddamn eyes.”
Eleanor? They’ve done their research.
I swing harder, shouting, “How the fuck do you know my name?” I connect again with my open palm, sending shock waves up my arm. “I know someone who knows Liam Neeson’s trainer. This bitch is not about to be taken.”
My wrist is grabbed, so I blurt self-defense lessons again. “Make my body limp.”
As if I’m trying to actively get kidnapped, I go limp, jerking my wrist from his hand as I fall over the console. My head and arms sprawled into his lap.
Why am I getting closer to his dick?
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The deep voice thunders, “Get off me.”
He grabs my rib cage, trying to lift me, but I’m not cooperating, even though he raises me anyway as more insanity tumbles out of my mouth.
“I have gonorrhea. Nobody will pay good money for me. I’m bargain basement. Spoiled meat. Throw me back.”
“Is this a joke?” My jaw is gripped, forcing me to turn my face toward his voice. “I’m not trying to traffic you, weirdo. Open your fucking eyes. Jesus Christ. It’s Crew.”
I’m panting, completely breathless, as I blink, then open my eyes slowly.
Eyes the color of water from somewhere tropical stare back, set against tousled brown hair and lips with just the right hint of fullness.
My chest’s still rising and falling too fast as a grin grows on my face. Because Crew’s just as hot as I remember…and as the fucking gravel in his voice.
“Hey, wifey. Remember me?”
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh as I nod and attempt to fix my hair, swiping it out of my face.
But he winks and rubs his jaw, tapping a finger to it as he adds, “Good. Now, give daddy a kiss and make it better.”
seven
“No commitment, all the fun, and none of the feelings.”
eleanor
“Yeah, right. You’re insane. What are you doing here?” Embarrassed, I scrunch my face as I add, “Other than getting beat up.”
If I had to describe the look on Crew’s face, it would be wildly entertained. His eyes drop to my lap before he slides his hand over the console. My eyes follow his line of sight just as he gently plucks my cell phone from between my thighs.